


Harry is Nothing

by Babywolfchick1142



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 5: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Nothing Hurts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-07-04 11:54:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15840777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Babywolfchick1142/pseuds/Babywolfchick1142
Summary: Love? What is love really, if not a sick mind game in your head? What are feelings, when you can't even feel? What is life, when the entirety of you mind is nothingness? Maybe death is greater than nothing, because when you die, you become nothing at all.Harry is nothing.





	Harry is Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a quick one shot. Thank you to Digitala's Discord for always being there for me. I love each and every one of you dearly.

  
Love? What is love really, if not a sick mind game in your head? Its not real. It can't be. Because if love were real, then Harry Potter was wrong. Wrong in so many ways. He had never once been loved, neither had he ever once felt love. If he couldn’t feel it, if he didn’t love anyone and no one loved him, then it just couldn't be _real._

  
It was all in the head. Everyone is crazy after all. Then again, how can one even know what love is, when they have never been shown even a ounce of love? Thinking about it could simply drive one mad. Then again, Harry already was mad, wasn't he? 

  
Harry once thought he loved Sirius Black, his godfather, and in return the man loved him too. Sirius was supposed to be just like an uncle to him, its it's what Harry's parents would have wanted, after all. Alas, it was all a lie. That isn't love, not really. They just both wanted it to be so bad, that they clung to the thought of it. They never really _knew_ each other, so how could he and Sirius love each other? 

  
It just wasn’t possible. Now the man was dead, killed by Bellatrix Lestrange. Gone forever beyond the veil. Harry felt nothing, he could hardly bring himself to care. The shock at first made him cry, but he didn’t really feel it. He only kept the mask of tears in place, he put up a front for everyone around him. Sirius Black meant nothing to Harry.

  
Harry also used to think he loved Ron and Hermione. His best friends, practically his brother and sister. However that was false too, they were just always there. They were company, and its not like either one loved him. Harry only kept them around, so he wouldn't be alone. They kept him around because he was _The Boy Who Lived,_ really what kind of nonsense was that?

  
He figured that out during fourth year, when everyone abandoned him after his name came out of the goblet of fire. It was so easy for them to hate him, just abandon him. He became nothing, and honestly? That didn’t even faze Harry. He was fine with it, the only thing he hated was having to be alone. He didn’t care that they were gone. Hermione and Ron meant nothing to Harry.

  
Feeling in general was difficult for Harry, it always had been. Feelings, what use did they really have? He felt some emotions, but they were weak, muted. Not true emotion, and never anything strong. In sharp contrast, he mostly felt nothing at all.

  
Happiness was just an illusion. A trick of the mind, an emotion Harry could never truly grasp. During third year, Harry had to create a semblance of happiness in his head, in order to cast the patronus. He was able to warp and contort his weakened fascination and pleasure, into mock happiness. Just enough to cast the spell well. It wasn’t real, but it worked.

  
Anger was mild, happiness was fake, hurt was false. None of it was real. Everything from day one had been fake, from the excitement, to the pain, to the hurt, the love. In all reality he just didn't care. Harry didn’t hate the Dursleys, he didn’t hate Voldemort. He felt no emotion or want towards his dead parents, no connection towards anyone. In a way he felt the same way towards everyone. 

  
He felt as if his life were a play or a movie, and he was the lead actor. Every single day, he was just playing the same role. The hardest scene he ever had to play was that day in the graveyard, when Cedric died. It was incredibly boring, yet he played the role of acting like he actually cared. The entire play was starting to bore Harry . 

  
The games he was constantly playing, the fake tears, Voldemort. Honestly he’d had enough, because at the end of the day, the effort was just becoming too much. It wasn’t worth it anymore, he just _didn't care._ Harry was so tired of playing pretend. But mostly he was tired of the nothingness. He dutifully played this role all these years, hoping that at some point, he would truly feel something.  
Its Summer, and Voldemort is back, and Sirius is dead. Nothing has changed.

  
Maybe he should stop delaying the inevitable, maybe its finally time to die. Voldemort would be happy, Harry just wanted to feel some of that happiness himself. But he can't, and never will. He wanted to escape the nothingness in his mind. Perhaps the best way to escape the vast emptiness, is to become emptiness. To become nothing. Perhaps, in the moment he dies, Harry will finally feel. 

  
Will it be fright, will it be happiness? Perhaps he will even be grated the illusion of love. Death held so many possibilities, he wouldn’t have to perform on this stage of life anymore. He would be free. Life after death was a fickle thought, one Harry didn’t like to think. In death Harry wanted to be done. To be gone completely. No other side, Harry just wanted to become nothing. It was truly his only escape. 

  
He could give Voldemort the honors of closing the show, or he could simply do it himself. Physical pain was something Harry did feel. He actually quite enjoyed it. If he were to do it himself, he would render the prophecy null and void. Voldemort could go on living forever, and Harry Potter would just simply be gone. 

  
The curtains close, the crowd goes wild.  
Yes, ending things himself would be the most logical solution. 

  
Harry straightened himself up from his position lounging on his bed. His room at the Dursley was sparse of things, but Harry didn’t care. He never did feel the need for anything materialistic. Perhaps his lack of care is why the Dursley’s hated him so much? Not that their hate evet really bothered him. 

  
Harry had a secret compartment under the floor board, where he kept the few things he felt were important. Harry dropped from his bed and down to his knees of the floor. Without even having to look, the Potter heir pulled the loose floorboard up.

  
Within was his wand, exactly three dreamless sleep potions, and a knife. Harry admired the knife with a almost fond smile, for it was his most prized possession.  
It was something he could call his, Harry's first true belonging. Harry was four when Aunt Petunia first made him do the gardening, he had been much different back then. The weeds were thick, and he hadn’t been quite strong enough to pull them from the ground. 

  
So Harrys Aunt gifted him with a knife to cut them away. It was small. it had once been a vegetable knife, but it had grew rusty with age. Petunia was just going to throw it out. It was unusable in the kitchen, but it was also still very sharp. Harry tried it out and with some slicing it worked, Harry was able to cut away the weeds with that small, rusty vegetable knife.

  
So it became Harry's. His first true belonging, his first ever gift. It was his. Even after all these years, with added rust and dirt, the knife still remained as sharp as a freshly cut blade. It was one of the only things. That truly held a sentimental value to him.  
Most importantly, through, It was sharp enough to kill him. It could end Harrys pitiful existence. The knife could easily cut through Harry's flesh like butter.

  
It was almost poetic really. Just thinking about how proud the Dursley’s would be to see their gift go to good use. It made Harry smile a little wider, at least in death he could make everyone around him happy. Maybe he could even be Happy himself for once, the thought alone was giving him butterflies. Death would be best for everyone, death would bring him true happiness for the first and only time.

  
He pulled the knife, the potions, and the wand from there place beneath the floor. He stood up from kneeling on the floor, and sat himself rigidly on his bed, once more. Truthfully, the Potter was ready to die, he had never been more ready. He welcomed his death. Harry Potter way past due on dying. He deserved it, he deserved escape the nothing, and truly become nothing….

  
Harry set the items on the bed next to him. Reaching down, he opened the first vial of dreamless sleep, He didn’t want to dream in the last few moments before death. He knew that before taking his last breaths, he would become delirious. He would fade to black. Dreamless sleep would counteract any visions. All three potions would leave his mind feeling blank, and even give him a nice gentle buzz to go out with. It was perfect really. 

  
Soon after the first, Harry downed the second and the third. Feeling the effects hit him instantly, in the form of tiredness. He was incredibly sleepy all of a sudden. He discarded the empty vials on the bed next to him, uncaring of the mess. It wouldn’t matter to him soon anyway. 

  
Harry then proceeded to pick up his wand. The wooden tool of magic was an extension of himself, and as such, it would die with him. With two hands, and a sharp intake of breath, Harry snapped the wand cleanly in half. Allowing the broken pieces fall to the floor. It was painful, like a piece of himself had already died, but it was also very necessary. He could leave nothing behind, for he would be nothing.

  
Now its time to use the knife. Old and rusty she may be, but it would do the job. It would bring Harrys life to justice. Breathing in a shaky breath, Harry held the knifes point to the very center base of his wrist. Directly below his left hand. He was beginning to feel kind of dizzy, his mind was fuzzy, like it was draped in a blanket. 

  
Harry dipped the knife in, pressing down hard. A sharp pain tingled its way up his entire arm, it was almost paralyzing. Numbing. Blood was already beginning to seep out around the blade, it was a beautiful shade of crimson. Perfect.

  
Seconds passed, but they felt like minutes. Harry’s grip on the knife tightened even more. He lay backwards on the bed, allowing his head to rest soundly on his old, worn pillow. He was tired. What now? What does he need to do. Harry had to end it, so what now?

  
Harry sighed, feeling content as the answer came to him. He yanked hard on the old rusted knife- it was about an inch deep in his skin, dragging it vertically down the length of his arm- Only stopping when he reached the end of his forearm. Blood quite literally squirted out, splattering everywhere. looked like paint.

  
Pushing past his heavy lidded eyes, Harry handed the blade to his left hand. His arm was on fire, burning in agony. It shook as he tried to move it, he barely had the strength to push the blade in to his right arm. It hurt, and he was so far away, so very far. Somehow he managed, repeating the same motions he had just taken with his right wrist. 

  
_Metallic.._

  
The whole world smelled like copper, it was so strong, so sick. Harry was slipping away, he could feel it. The pain was gone, he was just so numb, so tingly. The blood was everywhere, it was a magnificent sight, so beautiful. Splattering everywhere like a pretty picture. 

  
Harry smiled, this feeling, this feeling of numbness…..it must be what happiness feels like, at last. 

  
When did the lights go out? It was so dark all of a sudden....So dark, so empty. It was like he was nothing. Harry was finally escaping the nothing, to become nothing. He was fading. Harry was gone, Harry was obsolete. 

  
_Harry was…_

  
_Falling_  
_Falling_  
_Falling_  
_Falling_  
_Fallinggg_

  
Falling away. Harry **_is_** ….nothing

  


_A child, but not a child, enters his life at but eleven._

  
_Untoward the golden gates, through which leads us to heaven._

  
_A stairway of gold, spiraling its way to the above._

  
_Splinters away from a path, charcoaled with the burning words of love_

  
_A boy now fifteen, he feels nothing at all._

  
_He embraces his wings, preparing to fall._

  
_Falling upwards, or falling down, neither holds his desires._

  
_He wants not heavens light, nor hells burning fires._

  
_Nothingness is all he wants, to become what he truly feels._

  
_And only in death, will the emptiness free him, only in death will that boy Heal._

  
_Nothingness is all I am, emptiness is all I can be._

  
_With my life sacrifice, the nothing shall set us free._

  


  



End file.
